Sunday, February 26, 2017

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‘Just an accident’ his mother sighed, but he knew better. She was bruised and bleeding, not for the first time. They sank to the floor hugging each other, crying.

Each night he lay awake praying his father wouldn't creep into his room.

‘He’s gone’ his mother said one morning wiping her muddy hands on her apron. ‘Joined a cult or something. We’re safe now’.

Days later the police came and led her away. He was sent to a foster family. They were not nice. The day following his miserable tenth birthday he decided to flee. Nobody bothered to look for him. He went to live in a filthy cellar living off scraps from bins. Sometimes he tore feathers from dead pigeons then cooked them on a fire. He’d never been as happy.

Years later he searched for the old house. All he found was a pile of rubble. At the bottom of the overgrown garden, police tape fluttered where his father's shallow grave was found. Yesterday’s news.

He found a piece of his bedroom wall still covered in wallpaper depicting spinning stars and smiling space men. He once scribbled ‘help us’ under one hoping it would come to life and take them to another planet. It was still there.

As he traced the letters with his finger he thought he heard his mother sigh.

You made this very real, and a real story it is for so many children and now-grown adults I know. It amazes me how many people are surprised when the truth of such families finally emerges, public images can be so different from what is happening at home. My heart goes out to the children and the spouses everywhere who live day in and day out with abuse, and I think murder might be justifiable.